


Death of the Spirit

by KathyRoland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-05
Updated: 2011-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:51:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathyRoland/pseuds/KathyRoland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes death is quite pointless, meaningless.  Sometimes it serves no purpose at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death of the Spirit

There wasn’t anything to say. John stared into the eyes of his abductor and raised his chin.

“Come, Doctor,” the man murmured as he switched the safety off the gun. “Surely your life is important to you?”

John flexed his bound hands behind him, once more seeking some weakness in his bindings. If only he could get free, he could act. But the men who captured him knew what they were doing He was expertly bound to the chair and the chair in turn was fastened to the ground. He wouldn’t be getting free on his own this time.

His abductor stepped up in front of him. Slowly, he pointed the gun at John’s kneecap.

“I heard you were shot once,” the man mused. “You had a limp when you came back from the war. Do you want to be shot again? Perhaps crippled for life?”

John’s pulse jumped and he swallowed hard. He had no illusions as to what a bullet fired from that angle could do to him. That close and he kneecap would literally be blown away. He grit his teeth and stared silently at the man.

The man twitched in agitation.

“All you have to do is tell me where your partner is. We know he left your flat this morning, hunting for us. Just tell me where he went.”

The gun rested on his leg.

“Tell me.”

John stared at the man.

“Very well.” There was a noise. Something punched his leg. The man stepped back.

Warmth trickled down his right leg. Not wanting to, but knowing he had to, John looked away from the man and down at his leg. The moment he saw the wound, the pain came roaring through his body. His mind, so studied in bullet wounds, went a mile a minute as he catalogged the injury. The bullet had traveled straight though- pieces of his patella were sticking out obscenely. But more than that, there was arterial blood spray. The femoral had been hit. He needed immediate pressure on the wound, it needed to be elevated and the artery needed to be sealed. He needed-

With trouble, he stopped his thoughts. Forced himself to tear his gaze away from his broken, shattered leg and pin his abductor with a look. He had five to seven minutes, maybe. He felt his mind start to disconnect from his body. Shock was setting in, his doctors brain chimed in.

“Tell me.” His abductor studiously avoided looking at his injury. “Tell me, and you’ll receive care for that. I’ll call an ambulance, you’ll be free to go to be patched up. Just tell me where your partner is.”

John wondered if the man knew that he had already killed John. Likely not, he thought.

His thoughts were swirling around in his head and he could feel his skin going clammy with sweat. He was rapidly going hypovolemic.

The man stepped up once more and pointed the gun at John’s chest.

“Tell me!”

John smiled a death head’s grin. Sherlock’s face flashed through his mind. All faded to black.

  


Sherlock was in the process of picking the final lock on the door when the call came in. He had been on the trail of three blackmailers for a little over two days now. He knew he was getting close to them.

Briefly, his thoughts went to John, wondering if he should call him and have him come meet him. Once the men were cornered, they were likely to turn violent. They had made some powerful enemies and when they were caught, they would not be getting any mercy. Impatiently, he flicked the thought away. He knew they were not at the safe house he was about to enter, so there would be little danger. He would call John when he needed him. Until then, the doctor could clearly use some rest as he had been working long hours at the surgery as well as many sleepless nights helping Sherlock.

His phone vibrated in his pocket just as the final lock gave way. Frowning, he considered ignoring it, but he knew it might be important. He looked to the caller ID and scowled as he saw it was his brother.

“What?” he snarled into the phone.

“Are you alright?” Mycroft’s tone was tense, strained.

Sherlock scoffed into the phone even as his mind whirled. His brother hadn’t sounded that worried since the last time he had been admitted to the hospital for an overdose.

“Quite. Why?”

There was a moment of silence. Sherlock could make out quiet murmurs of Mycroft’s assistant relaying orders in the background.

“I’m having a car pick you up in two minutes. Be outside and cooperate.”

“Why?” he narrowed his eyes. A threat against him, that was a given. But why was Mycroft so alarmed? He hadn’t even been this worried with the Moriarty incident. True, he didn’t know the full extent of it until after the fact, but even then he hadn’t been this tense.

“Dr. Watson was forcibly abducted from your flat two hours ago. Likely to be questioned on your whereabouts.”

Sherlock sniffed. “They’re blackmailers, not assassins. Besides, John won’t tell them anything. I take it you’ve retrieved him?”

There was a moment of silence from the other side of the phone. Sherlock started down the steps on his way to the street. It was best to humor his brother in this, this time at least. He could hold it over him the next time he was feeling the need to smother Sherlock.

“Indeed. My forces found him just a few minutes ago. His abductors are long gone, however, and I want you somewhere safe while I find them.”

Sherlock’s mind whirled. Why was his brother taking an interest in them? He had never taken over Sherlock’s case before. Something made it personal.

“Where can I meet up with John?” he demanded as he got in the car that had pulled up in the conversation.

There was an odd note to Mycroft’s voice when he replied. “After I have apprehended the three men.”

Before Sherlock could demand anything, Mycroft disconnected the call.

Sherlock stayed silent as the car pulled into traffic and started on the way to Mycroft’s office. John must have been hurt. Perhaps he was in the hospital. Yet that didn’t quite fit. The men were blackmailers, intimidators. They weren’t torturers. So why was Mycroft so distressed?

  


It took less than 90 minutes from the time Mycroft’s men had reported they found the body of Dr. Watson left amongst the pool of blood he had bled out on the floor of a random warehouse to find and apprehend the men responsible. It took two minutes for Mycroft to call in some favors and have the three shipped off without a trial to the nearest terrorist holding center. No one would ever hear from them again.

And yet- it was not nearly enough. Mycroft looked once more at the photograph of the man his brother had come to rely on- to love, perhaps. The man who had made Sherlock human, as it were. His assistant looked up from her blackberry to wait for instructions.

“Sir?” she asked.

“Take me to the office. Have some video surveillance set up in my brother's flat. I want every room monitored. Select two men to trail him when he leaves the premises. Let them know he will be considered a threat to himself and to prevent at all costs harm to come to him.”

He had perhaps lost any chance of his brother's soul, but he was damned if he was going to let his brother kill himself after this.

Much sooner than he would have liked, the car arrived at his office. Taking a fortifying breath, Mycroft composed himself to meet his brother.

He paused one last time before entering the room where his brother was.

He opened the door, took in the sight of his brother in mid-pace. Watched as he whirled dramatically and pinned Mycroft with a withering stare.

“Well?” Sherlock demanded.

Mycroft pursed his lips. “Sherlock. Sit down.”

He saw his brother's wonderful mind whirl through thoughts and conclusions. He saw his brother's face drain of blood. He saw the light go out of his eyes. He saw the death of his brother’s spirit.

“John?” the broken man whispered.


End file.
